


you've gotta waste away with me

by thanksforthecrumb



Series: a very, very, very fine house [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cats, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, aden is a kitten!!!, apparently i only write crack fluff now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7003558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy and Bellamy temporarily acquire a kitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've gotta waste away with me

**Author's Note:**

> part 1/2 (?) inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/jonathanmvrphy/status/710125959366574080). (part two will actually follow the prompt. this is just me having a good time)
> 
> title from my cHILDREN the head and the heart's "coeur d'alene."
> 
> thanks to zopper for editing!! also i ripped off one of their comments and used it as the ending, so credit to them there. ps murp is 22, bell is like 24-26 idk i dont plan these things

“What,” Murphy says as a cheap cardboard pet carrier is shoved unceremoniously into his hands, “ _the_ _fuck_ is this?”

Lexa regards him steadily, perpetual look of vague irritation on her face. “This is Aden,” she says.  
  
“Okay.” Murphy looks at the box, nearly dropping it as the creature inside shifts its weight. “What…is it doing in my hands.”  
  
“He,” Lexa corrects stiffly. “Did Clarke not tell you?”  
  
“Tell me what?”  
  
Lexa rolls her eyes. “We’re driving to New York for the weekend. Someone needs to look after Aden; he does not do well on his own.” She tosses a fond look to the carrier. “He likes to cuddle.”  
  
Murphy bites the side of his cheek. The image of Lexa—with her aggressive eyeliner, commanding presence, and sharp words—sitting down to cuddle with kittens might’ve been funny, but Murphy’s pretty sure he’ll get punched if he laughs, and he’s had his nose broken enough to know that the long healing process isn’t worth a few snickers.  
  
“So—what? I’m your substitute cuddler?”  
  
“No,” Lexa says, sounding like the words are scraping against her teeth. “You’re the only person available.”  
  
“I’m honored,” Murphy mutters, poking a finger through one of the holes punched in the side of the cardboard. Warm, soft fur meets his fingertips, until it’s replaced by the prick of needle-like claws. “ _Fuck,_ ” Murphy hisses, wrenching his hand away. He inspects the finger, already puffy and red but not bleeding.  
  
Lexa’s lips twitch into a gleeful smirk. “He doesn’t take well to strangers.”  
  
“Yeah, well. You and me both, asshole,” Murphy says to the box.  
  
Lexa ignores him. She whips a half-opened bag of cat food from behind her back, thrusting it into Murphy’s other arm. He stumbles, juggling the weight of two things.  
  
“We feed him twice a day, and he likes to drink from the faucet, so you’ll have to  make sure you leave it at a drip when he wants it.” Lexa pauses. “His claws are still new and he’s been scratching everything lately. It would be wise to provide him with a suitable surface, unless you prefer your furniture to look flayed.”  
  
Murphy groans. There’s a reason the cactus on the kitchen windowsill is the most dependent thing he’s ever been in charge of. “Is that all?” he complains. “Should I brush him one hair at a time? Hold him over the toilet while he takes a piss?”  
  
“You do not need to assist him like that,” Lexa says, sounding a bit puzzled. “Cats have excellent hygiene; they litter-train themselves almost immediately.” She hands him a small bag of litter as she says it, and Murphy takes it, blinking wordlessly.  
  
“Well,” she says. “That should be it. You have Clarke’s number?”  
  
“Only since sophomore year of high school,” Murphy grumbles, shifting the weight of all the feline materials he’s now carrying. Aden mews indignantly as he’s jostled, and Lexa looks like she’s two seconds away from taking the carrier right back. Murphy wouldn’t have minded. But her phone buzzes as she opens her mouth, and her face softens as she looks at the screen, lips melting into a gentle line.  
  
“Clarke is waiting for me. Text us if there are any problems.” She looks up and glares at him, and Murphy understands that what she means is, “If there are any problems, I’ll bury you alive.”  
  
He sets his jaw, rapidly trying to think of something to say. He’s always liked getting the last word. “Enjoy your vacation, idiot,” he says, which—okay. Not his best.  
  
Lexa tucks her hands into her pockets, smirk intact. She turns to leave the apartment’s doorstep, throwing a final “Don’t kill my cat” over her shoulder.  
  
Which is, objectively, better than what he’d said. Murphy closes his mouth, annoyed. He watches as Lexa climbs into her car, the weight of the cat carrier growing heavier in his hand as she drives off.  
  
Murphy stands there on the porch for all of four seconds before he yells, “Bellamy!” and nearly drops everything he’s holding. Aden yowls in protest, but Murphy ignores it, too busy yowling himself.  
  
Bellamy comes down the stairs, wet feet slapping against the wood, a patchy white towel wrapped around his waist, hair dark and slicked back with water. “What?” he rasps, moisture still beading on his chest. He shivers as a draft of cold wind comes in from outside, pinkish-brown lips turning purple.  
  
Murphy stares at him. He stares at the box in his hands. “I have this,” is all he says, lifting Aden’s carrier a bit higher.  
  
“Oh,” Bellamy says, apparently recognizing it. “Did Clarke stop by?”  
  
“Lexa.”  
  
Bellamy grins. “Fun.”  
  
“Why. Why do I…have this.”  
  
“They’re going to New York for the weekend.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what Eyeliner said. But like—why do I have this?”  
  
Bellamy shrugs. “Clarke asked if we could take care of Lexa’s cat for a few days. I said yes.”  
  
“Okay,” says Murphy. “But…why?”  
  
“Because we’re nice and Clarke’s our friend.”  
  
“ _Ugh,_ ” says Murphy. “ _That_ again.”  
  
Bellamy only smiles wider and pads back up the stairs to finish his shower. “When I come back down, I better find that cat alive.”  
  
“Why does everyone think I’m going to kill it?”  
  
“Last week I saw you eating a can of half-frozen lemonade for dinner. You can barely take care of yourself.”  
  
Murphy doesn’t point out that he’d wanted a slushy and Bellamy had been late coming home from work, so really, what was he supposed to do? Eat dinner? _Not_ have a pseudo-slushy? Ridiculous. For a live-in boyfriend of nearly two years, Bellamy can be very dumb when it comes to Murphy Logic.  
  
“So why am I now in charge of a _cat_?” Murphy says incredulously, waving the carrier for emphasis. Aden hits the side of the cardboard with a muffled thump and a soft hiss.  
  
“You’re not. Relax, Murph. I’ll do most of the work. You can do the cuddling.” Bellamy leaves the top of the stairs, and Murphy hears the bathroom door _foomp_ shut, the shower being turned back on.  
  
He frowns, thinking about it. “I _am_ pretty good at cuddling,” he mutters to the holes in Aden’s carrier. “Bell can tell you.” The kitten bats at the walls angrily in response, and Murphy sighs, unlatching the door. And, shit—  
  
That fucker moves _fast_.  
  
He explodes out of his confines, a blur of dull golden fur, and dodges Murphy’s legs and arms. “Jesus,” Murphy swears, his head spinning as he tries to follow the cat’s path.  
  
“Hey, come back,” he calls, scrambling after him. Aden careens around the cramped living room, jumping all over the couch cushions and skittering across the coffee table, sending the papers there flying.  
  
“Just—fuck. Calm _down_ , you fuckhead.”  
  
Aden ignores him, which is kind of expected. Murphy sighs, casts one last look at the excited kitten, and flops onto the couch, listening to the faint murmur of Bellamy singing an ABBA song in the shower. Murphy’s eyelids start to droop. He works the twelve to four morning shift at the local Denny’s (screw them for being open twenty four hours, honestly—their pancakes aren’t _that_ good), and his sleep schedule has never been stellar. He falls asleep to the sound of 70s Swedish pop music and the soft _skriiitch_ of a kitten digging his itching claws into the kitchen cabinet.  
  
He wakes up with the same kitten on his head, this time rumbling in sleepy satisfaction.  
  
“What the fuck,” Murphy says as he registers the extra weight. A soft tabby paw slips down over his forehead. He nudges it away and sits up, Aden remaining firmly planted on his head. A scrap of paper rustles as he moves, and he plucks it off his chest, scanning it.  
  
_Murph—went out to buy dinner. Don’t eat the lemonade. Love, B_  
  
Murphy rolls his eyes as he crumples the note into a ball, stuffing it into his pocket. “You ready to get off, kid?” he says to the half-grown kitten nestled in his hair.  
  
The cat only purrs louder, belly rumbling deep against Murphy’s head. Murphy sits quietly for a minute, not wanting to disturb him.  
  
But that’s stupid, isn’t it? Since when does Murphy care about the comfort of other people, much less other people’s _cats_? He grunts, tugging Aden out of his hair. “Yeah, okay, you’re done, bud.” Murphy sets him on the floor, giving his ass a little nudge with his foot. “Go play with a rat or something.”  
  
But Aden only turns around, sits back on his haunches, and bats at Murphy’s pant leg. Murphy frowns, not really appreciating the insinuation. Aden puts both paws against Murphy’s ankles, leaning his weight against them. His eyes go big as he stares at Murphy, and he looks so _soft._    
  
“You’re cute,” Murphy says, relenting and picking the kitten back up, plopping him in his lap, “but that doesn’t mean that I like you.”  
  
Aden slithers up Murphy’s bony thighs, tucking himself deeper into the crook of Murphy’s elbow, rubbing his warm head against Murphy’s skin. Murphy’s eyes start going heavy again, and Aden starts purring, a mini, vibrating heater in his arms.  
  
It feels nice, weirdly enough, that someone depends on him. Murphy’s killed a record number of plants in a record number of ways (Monty refuses to let him plant-sit anymore, and that’s probably a smart choice on his part), but rocking a pre-teen cat to sleep is surprisingly enjoyable. He thinks he feels his lips curl upward into a dumb grin when Aden flicks his tail across his nose, but there’s no _real_ way to tell. Sleep-dulled senses and all.  
  
“I think you’re turning into a cat, Murph,” Bellamy says, low laugh sharpening Murphy’s hazy mind. He’d probably come into the apartment while Murphy was dozing off. “I haven’t seen you do anything but sleep today.”  
  
Murphy sits up, rubbing the faint drool off his mouth and glaring when Bellamy smirks at it. Aden stirs in his arms. “Shut up, Bell. I do what I want. I’m an adult. Did you get the crazy straws?”  
  
Bellamy rolls his eyes and digs the pack of multicolored curly straws out from one of the bags and hands it over to his boyfriend, who immediately plunks it into a bottle of soda. Bellamy sets the bag of takeout on the table, and Murphy leans over to rifle through it, examining what Bellamy’d brought home.  
  
“ _Aaahh,"_  Bellamy breathes, the sound coming out thick through his nose. “ _Aaahhh..._ _aaahhh..._ ”  
  
Murphy covers the food quickly. “Shit, Bell, if you’re going to sneeze don’t do it on the food. Take your germs somewhere else.”  
  
“Thanks for the— _aaahhh_ —concern, Murphy, it’s so touching when you put my wellbeing above your stomach’s.”  
  
“I’m just looking out for number one.”  
  
“I thought I was your number one.”  
  
“You have your moments.”  
  
“I hate— _aahhhhh_ … _chyoo_!”  
  
Murphy pats his back as Bellamy sniffles aggressively at the snot dribbling over his lips. “Aw, babe,” Murphy says, reaching over for a tissue, “don’t tell me you’re _allergic_ to me. We’ve been having such a nice time.”  
  
“Shut up, asshole.” Bellamy takes it, rubbing at his nose. “It’s probably just something in the food. I had some on the drive over.”  
  
“I fucking _knew_ someone’d been at the chicken.”  
  
Bellamy presses the soggy napkin into a ball and lobs it over Murphy’s head, where it bounces off the little island in the kitchen and misses the trash can by a few inches. Murphy smirks. “Yeah, well, you can have the chicken all to yourself. I’m not touching it,” Bellamy says as he bends over to pick up the tissue. He does look a little sweatier than usual, dark curls sticking to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed.  
  
From his perch in Murphy’s arm, Aden jumps down, paws hitting the floor with a soft thump. Bellamy looks over at the noise. “Oh, hey,” he says, trying to make his rough voice sound sweet. “I never got to say hi to Aden.”  
  
Aden lifts his head and meows. Bellamy’s hand is huge as it tickles underneath Aden’s jaw, and Murphy has to push down the gross, warm feeling in his stomach at the sight of his boyfriend playing with the kitten. He doesn’t have to try very hard for long, because then Bellamy’s sneezing on Aden, who’s looking confused at this development, and Murphy can’t help but laugh, because flying snot makes a lot more sense in their universe than a peaceful afternoon of cat-appreciation.  
  
After Murphy’s toweled Aden off and given him what’s probably enough food for two German Shepherds (“Let me do it, Bell, I know what I’m doing! I don’t want him to be _hungry_!”), he tugs his boyfriend into the kitchen and makes him sit down, box of tissues placed safely by Bellamy’s elbow.  
  
“Come on,” Murphy says. “I’ll make you some of my world famous soup.”  
  
“You’re just going to make it from a can you fucking liar.”  
  
“Family recipe,” Murphy answers cheerfully, plucking a can opener from the drawer. “Passed down for generations.”  
  
Bellamy shakes his head and smiles as a metallic scraping sound erupts from the sink. Murphy’s grinding away at the can, lips tucked into that little frown of concentration. Bellamy thinks he loves Murphy a lot, especially when he’s making food for him. That’s definitely a bonus.  
  
Bellamy rubs at his nose with a tissue as Murphy bangs around in the kitchen. "I don't usually get sick," he mutters, something like an apology.  
  
"Bell, shut up. You're not Superman. You get colds. And then I make soup for you and wrap you up in four blankets and then you get extra mad at me when I put my cold hands on your neck. It's all part of the Murphy Boyfriend Experience."  
  
"Why did I ever ask you out on a date."  
  
Murphy chucks the empty soup can into the trash, where it bounces off the rim and startles Aden. Bellamy raises an eyebrow. Murphy shrugs. "I'm hot, obviously."  
  
"Yeah, okay. I'm going to let that one go because you're making my dinner and I don't want you to slip anything in there."  
  
"I would _never_ tamper with chicken noodle soup."  
  
Bellamy narrows his eyes. "You put ketchup in it last time."  
  
"That's different," Murphy says, waving around the scalding ladle he's using to stir. "Ketchup goes with everything. It's a national treasure."  
  
"I can't believe I'm dating you."  
  
"I'm just too good to be true, I know."  
  
Bellamy shakes his head, glad that Murphy's back is turned to the stove so that he can't see the smile simmering on his boyfriend's face. "Something like that."

* * *

 Murphy’s eyes are closed, but he hears Bellamy slip on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt by the foot of their bed, feels the mattress lurch as the older man clambers underneath the covers.

“Stop moving so much, Bell,” Murphy mutters blearily, and Bellamy presses soft lips to his neck as an apology. His arms, sturdy and familiar, wrap around Murphy, tucking him closer to Bellamy’s chest. (Murphy doesn’t complain at this particular jostling.)  
  
Bellamy sighs, and Murphy feels it ruffle against his scalp. It’s quiet and dark and warm, and Murphy loves this about night, loves Bellamy the most at night, when they can be still and silent and utterly one.  
  
And it’s beautiful, perfect—one of the few things left in the world that Murphy trusts wholeheartedly. Until Bellamy sneezes into his hair. Three times.  
  
He sniffles a bit piteously, and Murphy guesses there’s a wordless apology embedded in there somewhere. Murphy doesn’t move, trying not to think about the quickly cooling, wet feeling seeping into his hair. Bellamy sniffles again, and chokes down another sneeze. “Is that cat fur?” he says, voice rougher than usual.  
  
And thus it comes to pass that Bellamy “I’ll do most of the cat-sitting, don’t worry about it” Blake is allergic to felines. Aden leaps onto the bed by Bellamy’s pillow, which Bellamy currently has his head buried in. He makes some kind of weird grunt-moan noise. Aden snuffles around the back of his neck innocently.  
  
Murphy pats his boyfriend’s curly head, not even trying to hide his gleeful smile. “Don’t worry, babe. You just have to get through the rest of today. And Saturday. Also Sunday. It’ll be gr—”  
  
“ _Shuf. Uf.”_

Murphy tugs Aden off of Bellamy. "Do you want me to go out and buy an EpiPen?"

"I'm  _fibe_ ," Bellamy says.

He's not fine, but Murphy shrugs, deciding he doesn't really want to trudge to CVS anyway.

He tugs Aden off of Bellamy, half because Bellamy might explode from cat-exposure and half because he wants the kitten's attention for himself. Aden curls himself contentedly against Murphy's chest, and Murphy mirrors the movements on Bellamy, who sniffles and sighs, stretching a sweaty arm around the smaller man.

Murphy smiles in the dark. It's a good thing Bell's a dog person.

**Author's Note:**

> so like i said there's gonna be a part two, but if u want to see more from this universe, let me know here or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/eternaIexa) or whatever spices ur sandwich. im not promising anything bc im a slow writer and also finals are coming up but where there's murphamy and kittens there's a Way.


End file.
